


Hellbound

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossroads Deals & Demons, Demon Peter Hale, Evolving Tags, Falling In Love, Hellhound Hales, M/M, Major Character Death but not?, Sheriff Stilinski Dies for a hot minute, halehounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Sheriff Stilinski dies during a robbery attempt, and Stiles brings him back to life with a little help from Peter Hale, crossroad demon. One year later, Derek Hale, hellhound is sent to collect his soul.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Hellbound

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by [this post](https://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com/post/127722223511/sher-lokied-teen-wolf-au-hellhound-derek-and)

~ * ~

When it happens, it’s surprisingly quiet.

Stiles always thought if his father died on the job, he’d go out in a blaze of gunfire or maybe a car accident.

Not this.

Why they’re here in the bank instead of safe at home studying for that stupid Econ test Finstock keeps threatening them with is simply because Stiles is curious.

It’s not his curiosity that does it, though. He and Scott are hiding in the back of the bank. They literally have nothing to do with it. At all. His dad doesn’t even know they’re here.

Up front, his dad, the Sheriff, tries to reason with the masked intruder.

Distinctly female, the thief raises a knife. She brought a knife to a gunfight. Stiles can feel Scott panting on the back of his neck, and he shoves an elbow into him, forcing him back.

“Sheriff, I like you,” the thief says, the blade gleaming in the security light as she twirls it over her fingers. “I really do, but there are some things you need to understand have to happen.”

“I’m not letting you walk out of here,” his dad replies, voice steady even though his gun wavers. “You realize that, right?”

“Fine then,” she says. Before any of them can move, before his dad can shoot her, she throws the knife. It hits dead center of his right shoulder.

His gun clatters on the tiles, skittering away as he hisses in pain, dropping to his knees, fingers pressed to his shoulder.

“Oh,” the woman sighs, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. Does that hurt?” She throws another knife, this one sticking from his other shoulder. She clucks her tongue, grins as yet another knife falls into her palm.

Just how many of those things does she have?

This one finds its mark in the Sheriff’s throat.

Stiles screams, and the thief glances his way before stepping lightly to where his father is still kneeling and ripping the blade from his neck.

The arc of blood that follows is far brighter than it should be, Stiles thinks.

“Dad,” Stiles whispers, again, he thinks, his throat aching. The Sheriff looks at him, clenches his empty hand, and falls backward.

Muted, he hears his father’s body fall, thumping against the ground, and it spurs him to action.

He and Scott, half-shifted, scramble forward skidding over tiles, reaching where his dad is lying on his back in a growing puddle of blood.

The doors, the same ones the thief waltzed through barely fifteen minutes ago slam open, clunk shut behind her, and Stiles doesn’t care. Not when his father, his world, is dying.

He presses one hand against the wound on his dad’s throat, using the other to cradle his head. Distantly, he hears Scott dialing on his phone.

“Stiles,” his dad croaks, coughing softly as blood tinges his lips. Scott whines as he joins their group. His phone hangs limply in his hand, 9-1-1 dispatcher’s voice tinny and trying to be reassuring.

The maniac with the knives up her sleeves is getting away and Stiles _doesn’t care_. All he cares is that his dad, gripping his hand tight, tighter, _looser_ , is gasping his name and _dying_.

Scott whines again, pressing a hand over the wound too and drawing some pain away. For a moment, the Sheriff’s eyes clear, and he smiles.

But his teeth are bloodstained and the puddle is growing larger still and Stiles, human Stiles, can feel him cooling even as he breathes.

“I love you,” he says, and Stiles hurries to say it too, but his dad is already slumping, eyes sliding half-closed and then no more. Scott wails, because Stiles can’t.

~ * ~

The box is small, some carved thing they found at a carnival traveling through town a few years back. It reminded Stiles of his mom and Scott had passed him the four dollars and told him he should get it.

Now, it’s got a picture of Stiles, from Lacrosse of all things, a small jar, one of those decorative ones they sell at craft stores, filled with dirt from Stiles’ mom’s grave corked tight and sealed with wax, a bone from a black cat that couldn’t be saved by Scott’s boss, and a sprig of yarrow tied into a white cloth because Stiles read somewhere white represented purity. He stares down at the small hole he’s dug. It looks too small even though the box isn’t really bigger than a medium sized paperback book.

He sets it in the hole, letting it fall gently, reverently and tucks the loose dirt over it, patting at the small mound. He sits back on his heels and waits.

Nothing happens.

That’s not quite true.

He sniffles, on the verge of crying again, and there’s a sudden breeze that ruffles over his hair. But, other than that, nothing happens.

He sighs, feeling the crushing weight of despair clawing its way up his chest and into his throat. It was a waste of time. It didn’t work.

“Ah,” someone says behind him, and he jumps to his feet, spinning around. A man, dressed in a black suit, a blood-red shirt, and a ridiculously long, leather trench coat grins sharply at him. “Mr. Stilinski.” His voice is even and neat, the vowels honeyed and poisonous. He tilts his head as he studies Stiles with a cold, calculating gaze. “So, the little boy wants to make a deal with the big, bad demon.” He spreads his hands as if challenging Stiles to dispute that fact. Stiles doesn’t respond.

“Well,” the man continues, a little impatiently. “Tell me, who are you trading your soul for? A lover?A brother?” His eyes flash red for a brief second as he sniffs deeply, sighing at whatever scent he catches. “Ah, it’s your father. The real Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles remains quiet. He hasn’t felt much like talking despite the numerous reports that he suffers from a perverse need to hear his voice.. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, a challenge of his own, and the man raises his own in retaliation.

“Ah,” he says again, and Stiles really hates the way he drawls it. “I see. So, I take your soul in exchange for your father’s. Assuming he’s even around here somewhere where I can forcibly drag him back to the land of the living.” He hisses in pleasure, clapping his hands together with a sharp crack. Stiles absolutely doesn’t jump at the sound. “I think I’m going to enjoy this very much. How long did you want? Is a day enough time?”

“No,” Stiles finally finds his voice, surprised when it’s steadier than his hands. He tucks his hands into his armpits and glares. “I want a year with my father. To say goodbye.” He stops, tears in his eyes again. Is a year really enough time? His sources had stated people usually got ten years. But, that was a crossroad far from here with a fairer demon.

This is Peter Hale, burned at the stake in a rather recent century, cursing everyone with his last breath only to be resurrected as a demon at the next worm moon.

Peter Hale has never been particularly forgiving or fair. Stiles thinks he’d be lucky to get a year, much less the day Peter initially promised.

Apparently, the demon is feeling a bit more fair than usual because he inclines his head and smiles, honey and vinegar. “Shake on it, Stilinski,” he says, hand held out to him. “Spit in your palm and shake on it. One year with dear old dad and then I get your soul.”

Stiles’ mouth is too dry for spit so he settles for a venomous glare as he takes the demon’s hand. They shake quickly, Stiles’ palm burning. He jerks free and stares at the brand lining his skin.

It looks like a capital cursive ‘H’ surrounded by a border of smaller text.

“Latin,” Peter offers, shrugging when Stiles stares at him. “It says ‘the one who entered this agreement is bound to the whim of the holder.’“

“It does not,” Stiles says. Peter smiles again.

“You’re right. It’s just the words of my family’s motto. ‘Pack is not always family but pack is family.’ In a way, you’re pack now. Especially after the year is up. Go say hello to your father for me.”

Peter spreads his arms, throws back his head, and howls. The sound worms its way into Stiles’ ears and he has to cover them to block out the sound. Peter vanishes in a puff of black smoke. In his place is the box, opened, empty. Stiles picks it up and heads back to his jeep.

Inside, he breathes deeply. It worked. It actually worked! And Scott had said not to try.

Actually, Scott’s boss had said that. Scott hadn’t said anything, but he hadn’t moved from Deaton’s side, so it was almost as if Scott had said it himself, right?

The brand on his hand hurts when he presses his palm against the steering wheel. He flicks on the overhead light to look at it more closely. The redness of the burn is already fading, and the lines look dark, like a tattoo. He traces the ‘H’ and shudders at the sensation of it, the raised texture, the slight throb of healing flesh.

Abruptly, he tugs his sleeve down to cover it. He’ll deal with it at home. Right now, he needs to find his father. Hopefully the morgue hasn’t done anything to the body yet.

God, he hopes not.

~ * ~

When he comes skidding into the morgue, sneakers squealing obnoxiously on the linoleum, he crashes right into Scott.

“Hey, man,” Scott says, and it’s so obvious he’s freaking out right now. Stiles runs a hand down his arm, feels the fine tremors. “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” Stiles replies distractedly, already pushing around Scott and heading toward the still-closed doors. Melissa stands in front of them, arms crossed over her chest, glare pulling her brows low.

“Stiles,” she says, warning pinging in her tone. “Don’t do this. Please.”

“Already done,” Stiles says and he runs his fingers over the palm of his branded hand. Her eyes track the movement, and she nods sharply, stepping aside as he shoves the doors open. He’s barely aware of both McCalls following him into the room.

He pulls up short at the sight of his father, who most definitely had been dead before he headed out to the crossroads, sitting upright on a gurney, sheet pooled over his lap, Deaton poking and prodding at his revealed body. There is no y-incision. He’s still got the marks from the knives, although they are fading into puckered pink skin instead of raw, red gashes.

“Dad!”Stiles yells, and his father whips his head around so fast he knocks Deaton’s hands away.

“Stiles!” he responds. He hops down, tying the sheet around his waist, and hobbling forward to wrap Stiles in an embrace that’s a little bit cold and wrong. Stiles burrows his face into his shoulder and sobs.

Slowly, his father’s cold skin warms as he breathes on it. One hand comes up to card through his hair and the other pats at his back while his father makes shushing sounds in the back of his throat.

“Stiles,” Deaton says, voice level and calm. Stiles glares at him over his father’s shoulder. “Stiles, this should not have been done. You’ve messed with the laws of human order.”

“You make it sound worse than it is,” Stiles retorts.

“Stiles,” his father says, pulling back, wrapping an arm around him, and squeezing. “Deaton’s right: you shouldn’t have done this. But, I understand why you did. And I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing. How long did he give you?”

“A year.”

His father nods, sharing a knowing look with Deaton. “Then we have a year to break the contract.”

“Or find a suitable substitute,” Deaton provides.

Stiles points at him, says, “I nominate you, if it comes to that.”

No one laughs.

Stiles shrugs anyway. It’s only half a joke. If there’s a chance he can squirm out of Peter Hale’s deal, he’ll take it. Even if it means dropping Deaton into the demon’s clutches.

He rubs the brand again, wondering where the pain went, wondering if his dad will always feel cold when he touches him.

Human order, he thinks, watching Melissa hand his dad a folded stack of scrubs. If human order meant to take his father, then surely it meant just as much for him to get him back.

“Let’s go,” he says once his dad is fully dressed. He shoots Scott an apologetic look, grips his dad’s wrist, and tugs him out the parking lot.

They climb into his jeep silently, both staring at the sudden drops of rain splashing down.

“Stiles,” his dad says quietly, hand landing on Stiles’, squeezing with that still-cold, still-wrong touch. “It will all be okay.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees quickly. Not because he truly believes that, but because he has to. He needs to have something to fall back on when they don’t succeed.

He starts the jeep and pulls onto the road. Beside him, his dad cranks up the heat and shivers slightly.

~ * ~

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure I missed a few tags. Please let me know if I did.
> 
> Check out [my Tumblr](https://1989dreamer.tumblr.com) for more writing updates.


End file.
